I Got Life, Brother
by Tarie
Summary: Seventh Year at Hogwarts was not what Seamus expected: Snape in charge, Death Eaters teaching classes, and Dean missing. How can he find his way when he's feeling so very lost?


_"Not knowing what you feel, that's not the same as not feeling anything."_

- Gideon, "_Criminal Minds"_

Hogwarts has gone to shit.

Hogwarts has gone to shit and it isn't like Dean is even here to agree with me about how good and fucked everything is.

Dean's a Muggle-born, see, and he's not _stupid_ . When those Ministry bastards started rounding up the Muggle-borns, he did the smart thing and split. That's my best mate. Smart.

Smart and a bit of a wanker, to boot.

He never even said goodbye.

Not that I'm crying into me pumpkin juice every morning about it or nothin'. I'm just _sayin'_. When a bloke plans on disappearing off the face of the ruddy planet, don't you think he ought to ink in a manly-yet-heartfelt goodbye to the fellow who's been as good as brother for the past six years ?

I thought so, anyway.

I fucking _said_ I wasn't crying into me pumpkin juice, already!

Right, then. Back to the part about Hogwarts being shit again.

With Snape in charge and all the Death Eaters masquerading as 'teachers' (Ha, that's a fucking joke if I've ever heard one!), you can't expect much else.

Neville, Ginny, and I try to keep everyone's spirits up. We rebel when we can, take our licks when they come, and wait for word on Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

Wait for word on Dean.

I've never been the patient sort. Me mam says I must've got that from Da, though personally I think I've got it from her – not that I'll ever say so. I may be a lot of things, but daft surely isn't one of 'em.

But this waiting thing?

Sucks flobberworms.

Makes me feel like I'm slowly dyin' inside.

And me?

Oh, I've got things to live for. _Live_ for.

Everyone's piled onto Neville's bed in our dorm, watchin' as he taps the top of Lavender's wireless set with his wand, mumbling as he searches for the right station. When Lee Jordan's familiar voice blares out of those tinny speakers, I whoop 'cos I know we're about to hear the real deal, not the same old shit kissing the arse of You-Know-Who like all the other programmes have been doing for months on end.

I elbow one o' 'em Creevey boys in the side and get in close. I don't want to miss a word.

"…_A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news…"_

Around me people gasp. One of the girls starts to cry. Somebody touches me should. I shrug it off. Don't want anyone touching me. Don't want to feel anything.

I'm gonna be sick.

"Make way," I manage, and Romilda makes a squawking noise as I shove past her.

Somehow I get myself into the loo before I fall apart. I cram up in one of the stalls, lock the door, and slam my fists – one two one two one two – against it. It doesn't make me feel any better.

So we've word on Dean.

It isn't any good.

No, I know. You don't have to tell me. It could have been worse. Dean could have been killed along with the others but he wasn't.

But he's missing. That isn't good.

Dean? If you're out there, mate? Run. Keep running. One day I'm gonna give you a black eye for scaring me so and it will be a glorious day, mark my words.

So, yeah. Keep running, mate. I'll be waiting for you.

Neville's been saying I'm not myself lately.

Ginny's been saying that I'm a fucking mopey twatarse.

I haven't been saying shit.

Not a peep.

Not even when I got 'detention' (ie, the Cruciatus Curse) from that Carrow troll-bint-cow-thing for not answering her damned question in class yesterday.

I don't feel like talkin'. Shouldn't be anything wrong with that.

I haven't been talking much lately, but I've been thinking. I've been thinking a bloody lot.

Where Dean might have gone. Wondering what he might be doing. Worrying whether or not he's all right. Keeping track of West Ham so Dean won't be so behind if he gets back.

_When_ he gets back.

Thoughts can consume a person, and I suppose that's what I am. Consumed.

It's not a bad thing to be, all things considered. When your best mate's in trouble, it's your duty as a mate to plan and scheme and plot and plod through all the possibilities that might matter where they're concerned.

Innit?

Over brekkie (and in the midst of flinging sugar cubes at each other) this morning, Gin asked me how I was feeling.

Since, you know, we've heard shit about Dean since that brief mention all those months ago on Lee's programme.

Now, she didn't come out and say as much, but I know Ginny Weasley well enough to know what she's askin' even if she isn't saying it all.

I just shrugged my shoulders and launched a bit of blood sausage toward the centre of her porridge bowl.

I didn't know how to answer.

I dunno how I feel. Dean's missing. How am I supposed to feel?

How am I supposed to know how I'm supposed to feel?

I'm just lost, that's all. Like a boat without a rudder.

Directionless. I reckon that's me, without Dean.

Like I'm going to keep on floundering along until he shows up, then everything will be better.

I know it will be.

Something's going to happen soon. I can sense it.

So can Neville. He doesn't say it but he doesn't have to. The way his shoulders set, all that tension right in the middle? That says it all.

We're practically the only leaders left. We lost Luna at Christmastime and Ginny at Easter, so it's been me and Neville, peas in a fuckin' pod, ever since.

He's a good leader, right resourceful and brave, though he doesn't like to hear it. I'd trust him with me life, though.

He motions for me to follow him, so I do. We head to the Room of Requirement. That's where everyone's been gathering.

"It's time to disappear," Neville says grimly. I don't even blink, much less ask why. When the doorway appears and Neville opens it up for me, I just nod.

It's time.

When Neville came back from Aberforth's with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in toe, I thought my day was fucking made. We were going to kick arse, take names, and reclaim Hogwarts (and, well, everything else) in the name of Dumbledore, Merlin, and non-wankers everywhere.

But then Luna shows up through the portrait, Dean Bloody Thomas in tow, and I swear to Jesus, Mary, n' Joseph that I would fucking faint if it weren't so godsdamned girlie.

I grin over at Dean. My best mate. My brother. My _Dean_. He grins over at me.

In that moment, I feel as though everything is gonna be fine, no matter what the day brings. Dean is back. I have no fucking clue what he's been up to for the past few months, but the stories can wait. We've some seriously evil arse to annihilate.

Thank fecking hell I've my rudder back.

Me Mam used to listen to this song over and over again when I was wee. 'Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone' was how it went.

Sitting in the Great Hall after it's all over, people bruised and bleeding, some dead, I can't think of a single damned thing other than those words.

They crash over me, changing everything I've ever known in the space of a few seconds.

I have to find Dean.

He's sitting in the corner of a corridor, where rubble came crashing down everywhere. There's a sketch pad on his knee, grime on his face, and absolute silence save for his biro moving over the paper.

"Hey," I say, and it's a pretty fucking lame thing to say to your best mate for the first time in months.

There hadn't been time to catch up when he and Luna arrived, after all.

The biro slips between his fingers, hits the paper, rolls, and then clatters onto the stone floor. I watch it drop, watch it until I can't see anything but Dean's bloody solid chest since he suddenly yanks me into a hug.

My stomach does this queer twisting thing and then it sort of burns, like I've drank too much Firewhisky at once. I don't say anything about it. I just hug back, Dean all solid and real and here. It's fucking fantastic.

We're finally alone in the dorm, really alone. Almost everyone else has gone home or gone to Hogsmeade to meet up with their parents. Mam sent an owl and said it was all right if I wanted to go visit with Dean for a bit before going home myself. We head out to Hogsmeade tomorrow to catch the train to London.

Not much packing has been accomplished so far. We keep talking, laughing and drinking butterbeer and making up for a hell of a lot of lost time.

Dean breaks out the Exploding Snap and I break out a bottle of Firewhisky I'd kept stashed in my trunk.

We drink.

We play cards.

We drink some more.

Dean suggests we raise the stakes, play strip Exploding Snap.

Because I'm fuzzy-headed, this seems like an ace idea.

When I'm not quite so pissed later, I'm sure I'll realise Dean Thomas is a cheating bastard, but the fact remains that I am pissed. Very, very pissed.

I lose all my clothes before he does, which makes Dean laugh. I swing my pants at him, cuffing him in the ear. He laughs, I laugh, and then I can't laugh anymore because his tongue is in my mouth.

Dean Thomas has his tongue in me mouth. Seamus Finnigan. Me.

Can we still be best mates if he's got his tongue in my mouth?

_Oh, yes we_ fuckin' _can!_, a voice screeches in my pounding head.

Never one to not listen to the Power of the All-Knowing Head Voice, I decide not to worry about that (because Dean and I have already survived a bunch of shit as it is). Instead, I look up at Dean, at how his mouth is hanging open slightly, how his collar bone sticks out just a little, at the way the corners of his mouth are still twitching from earlier laughter.

I shift just a little, look down between us. We fit well against each other, like we were meant to. Maybe we were. I dunno. We can work that out later. Right now, there are more pressing matters – like how fucking great it feels when Dean rocks his hips forward and then twists downward against me. I'm probably making ridiculous noises that sound more animal than Finnigan but Dean doesn't laugh. He pants, holds onto my biceps, lifts his hips so I can wrap my legs around his waist.

This skin against skin thing? Just might be the best sensation ever known to humankind. I'd be hard-pressed to find something better.

It's funny how the tiniest movement left or right or up or down makes things better or worse, but it does. Sometimes one of us will do something that pulls a moan or a "Fuck!" out of the other. Sometimes one of us will do something that earns a wince. I've never had such a brilliant time learning something before, but I reckon that's because I've never studied Dean Thomas in intimate detail. You can bet your arse I'll be doing that in spades now.

The most amazing thing about all of this is that Dean doesn't look away from me, not even once. I don't even think he's _blinked_. I can almost see myself reflected back in them, dark and warm and wide and knowing. I'm not gonna lie.

It's _really_ fuckin' hot.

Dean's looking at me like there isn't anything else in the world all the while our cocks are sliding against each other. It's warm and hot and our chests are stuck together with sweat and I'm positive I'm gonna implode any minute now.

Only Dean beats me to it, because that's how Dean is, and I curse because there's a wet, sticky heat all over my belly. But I'm one to share, so I roll Dean over, climb on top of him, and then I just sort of flop on top of him. There is an explosion behind my eyeballs and I feel myself returning the favour all over Dean.

He laughs and curses, too (laughs more than curses), and I roll onto the bed beside him.

Gasping for air (because we're both spent), we just sort of grin over at each other.

There isn't anything to worry about because I've got Dean back. I've got life. I've pretty much fucking got it all.

Call me a lucky bastard if you want; I won't deny a thing.


End file.
